


Sidecar

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x01, 9x02, Angst and Humor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Season 9, Sibling Incest, Spoilers, Timestamp, and this happens while Sam is asleep, because Sam and Dean have an established relationship, but then there's Zeke, so... yeah, there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean." The full volume of Sam's voice is a sonic blast in the stillness, and Dean's heart trips, thuds back into action. "What in the name of my Father are you doing to your brother?"</p><p>Not Sam, then. "Fucking hell, Zeke."</p><p>OR; Three times Dean forgets what's happened so far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidecar

**Author's Note:**

> Glowing-eyed angel orgasm GIFs made me do it and _I am not sorry_.
> 
> Beta'd by the beautiful Whim.

The first time Dean forgets about Sam's mostly-silent passenger, they're at the bunker, trying to figure out the ancient security system. It's all early fifties bells and whistles, which have Sam fascinated and Dean confused -- therefore frustrated, and on his third beer. 

“We haven't tried that button yet,” he says helpfully, taking a sip. As the bottle tips up it hides Sam's bitchface from view, small miracles. Dean is less and less amused by those faces as the years drag on. They used to be adorable, but now that Sam's face is all angles and older, all they do is remind Dean of his own, constant failures.

He takes another sip.

“I _have_ tried that button, Dean, that's the one that charges the dungeon.” Sam's voice is flat as the floor. Dean rolls his eyes and swallows. “How about that one?”

“Dude, if you're just gonna stand there and poke stuff, go do it somewhere else.” There's a lever underneath the console and Sam bends to inspect it; Dean's eyes rove the lines and curves of his brother's supple body. Every inch of him holds a nicer memory than the last, and Dean's chubbing in his jeans just staring. “Nah, I'm good here,” he says, and a deaf man would be able to hear the lewd heat in his tone. Sam throws him a look over his shoulder, but it's defeated by all the hair.

Dean cackles.

“I'm gonna try this,” Sam says, and he sounds uncertain, and Dean opens his mouth to say something like _well if you're not sure, genius boy, just give it a minute_ , but the lever is thrown and electricity surges down the lines on the wall, engulfs the device and Sam and nearly Dean, who dives out of the way. He lands hard on his hip and rolls, frantic, sees his baby brother wracked by millions of volts. Sam's convulsing, crumpling, there's no way he'll survive -- Dean's frozen in place, muscles locked and screaming; his eyes fill with tears, and the white lightning becomes a crackling blur --

Sam stands up, his eyes flare blue and the entire bunker shuts down.

In the silence that follows, everything is tinted by the color of those eyes. Ezekiel is like an angelic emergency light, and when he turns that eerie, ethereal gaze on Dean, who finds he can't breathe, the only thing he focuses on is his relief. Not the sudden, sharp shock of seeing his brother's eyes snap open without Sam behind them. Not the sinking in the pit of his stomach when he realizes this is another secret he'll have to keep. And certainly not the sick snap and spreading warmth of arousal as he takes in the way this angel wears his baby boy.

A hush has fallen over the bunker, in lieu of the steady hum of electricity Dean hadn't even noticed, and his ears ring high and tinny in its absence. Then Sam speaks -- _Ezekiel_ speaks -- a thunderclap over an empty plain. "I suggest you find the instruction manual for this device," he says calmly, Sam but not Sam, and all Dean can do is nod. “Thanks,” he croaks, but the light flees Sam's eyes and he collapses as the bunker lights click back on.

Dean is at his brother's side in the next instant, rolling him flat on his back and smoothing that ridiculous hair out of his face. “Sammy, hey, Sammy,” he says softly, patting Sam's cheek. “Come on back, man.”

Sam groans, shifts, and Dean raises his eyes in a haunted, thankful look to the pitted ceiling. “What happened?” Sam asks, his voice garbled as he stretches and sits up. He gets a good look at Dean's face and confusion is replaced by apprehension. “Dean, what just happened?”

“You got a nasty shock,” his brother says, looking at him like he might have died. “You--” Sam watches Dean's throat close up, mouth working soundlessly, helplessly, and takes pity on him. “Well, I'm okay now.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, looking too relieved for Sam's liking. “Yeah, you're alive. That's all that matters.” He gets to his feet, beer scattered and forgotten on the floor behind him, and offers a hand to Sam. “What say we find the instructions for this thing, huh?”

Sam takes the hand gratefully, wincing as he stands. He feels tender, overdone. But strangely all right.

More than all right.

“Maybe we'll just leave it for now,” he says, twining his fingers with Dean's. Their eyes meet, so much flies between them, and Dean's lips twitch up in a smirk. “Your room, or mine?”

“Wherever Kevin can't hear us.”

\- - - - -

The second time, it's actually Sam's fault. Well, Dean will maintain it's Sam's fault, but really it's just one more reason why Dean shouldn't drink as much as he does.

Sipping on some excellent Johnnie Walker Blue, the elder Winchester makes his way to the vast table where Sam has surrounded himself with every scrap of angel lore they've found. He looks small compared to the surface and sheer amount of objects on it, up to his elbows in dusty tomes and dead language scrolls, enjoying himself immensely and Dean doesn't really understand it.

Sam looks up when he approaches, and Dean can see exhaustion written clearly all over him, even though he's smiling. “Dude, sleep is not a sin,” he says lightly over the clink of ice in his glass. Sam eyes the drink pointedly, then his brother. “Neither is sobriety,” he deadpans, turning a page.

“I am not a drunk,” Dean protests. “There's moderation.”

“Yeah, when the bottle's empty.”

Dean doesn't want to have this conversation, so he turns to make his escape. Sam's sigh is a heaved pile of nice, fluffy guilt.

 _Spend some time with your goddamn brother where you're not refusing to talk to him or fucking him_ , Dean tells himself, and turns around. Pastes a smile on his face he figures not even Sam can see through. “Wanna take a break from that?” he says, gesturing to the papers.

One of the lesser known bitchfaces slams on. “Dean, all we've been doing lately is fucking, or not really talking. I don't feel like --”

Dean's sliding into a chair at this point and when he looks up at Sam in surprise, he almost misses. _Dude, are you reading my mind?_ “I actually want to talk, Sammy,” he says, seating himself gingerly and holding up his hands in surrender. One of them is still wrapped around his glass, and when Sam eyes it with a rapidly darkening expression, Dean sets it on the table.

“Use a coaster,” Sam says. 

“Did you grow a uterus while I was out of the room?” Dean snaps, grabbing some random something from one of the piles and shoving it under his glass. Sam makes a high noise of protest but doesn't grab the book or actually _say_ anything, so Dean cracks his fingers. "Find anything?"

"Yeah, actually, there's a scroll that was translated in 1326 by a monk in the --" Sam squints across the table at him. "You're not actually interested in this, are you?"

"I actually am, Sammy." Dean's voice rings with honesty. _If it'd tell me how to handle this new world order we got raining down upon us, I'd puzzle out that scroll myself. Luckily, I got you._

"--nother thing," Sam's saying. "Don't think I haven't noticed what you like to call me in bed."

Dean flushes vividly, especially his ears, he can feel it. "Don't know what you mean," he says gruffly, reaching for his drink.

"I -- ugh, okay, Dean," Sam sighs. "If you can't even have one conversation without --"

"Why is this all of a sudden about my drinking habits?" Dean snaps, slamming the glass down. Sam flinches, just a bare vibration but Dean sees it, hates himself for it. "Sammy," he tries, but Sam's turned back to his work with a decidedly neutral expression. 

They sit there in silence, then, the same silence they shared after Sam said he hadn't been so happy in forever. Only Sam's no longer so content, and Dean's no longer sure he did the right thing. Any time he did anything. 

Ice clinks in his glass and he inspects it dourly, briefly wishing he could somehow summon the whiskey from the other room. A long, slow breath in, and on his burning exhale he picks up the glass and downs its remains in one gulp.

"Have I ever told you why I call you Sammy?" he says very, very quietly. Sam's head snaps up. There's an odd sort of flip playing at the corners of Dean's lips, maybe a smile by Castiel standards. Thoughts of the angel stir dissent in the core of him but he ignores it for the greater mess of churning, twin guns of his love for his brother and what he has done to save him.

"Dean?"

Sam sounds concerned, but genuinely curious. Dean runs a finger along the lip of his glass. It's too dry to sing.

"Back when you were just a little guy, you didn't talk much." His throat isn't closing up around the words like he thought it might. "Usually Dad would ask you what you wanted, but you never answered him, so after awhile he asked you less and less and just asked me." He offered a better smile to Sam now, across the enormous table. "Course, you'd talk to me. We had our own language, kid."

"You always knew what I liked," Sam says. Dean can't translate his tone, so he just replies, "Most of the time, back then, we'd want the same thing. Dad, though..." Dean stares at the table. knows his face looks hard right now, green eyes gimlet and cutting traceries into the wood. He can't look at Sam as he continues. "Dad didn't get me what I wanted very often. Said a hunter didn't get everything he wanted, not even a few things. One night when he'd been drinking he said 'cause if hunters did get wishes that came true, that yellow-eyed fucker'd be dead and Mom --"

Sam makes some kind of noise low in his throat and Dean looks up to see his brother absolutely furious. "He had no right --" he begins, low and incensed, and Dean cuts him off. "He had a point, though. If we ever got lucky without strings attached, we'd go soft. We’d get caught up, and --" _and I'd lose you. Again._

His brother’s voice bubbles out of memory -- _promise that this time it will be final; that if I'm dead, I stay dead_ \-- but Dean shoves that back down, clears his throat.

"Anyway, since that, uh, happened, I would just tell him you wanted the things I wanted -- you usually did, anyway -- but it got so that whenever I did that I was sayin', 'Sammy wants this', 'Sammy wants that'." There they are -- Dean was wondering when his eyes would brim with tears. "I was sayin' 'Sam and me'. Sammy."

His smile is so watery it'd cure a man of thirst. "It's always been you and me, little brother. Always will be."

_There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

Sam is sitting dumbfounded, mouth dropped open, eyes glistening, frame trembling fine tremors Dean can feel through the table when he reaches for his drink. As he swallows, he hears Sam cough. Raises an eyebrow at him.

His brother tries to smile but it falls miles short. "I think I'd like one of those, Dee," he says, and one of Dean's tears falls unbidden.

They work their way through the whiskey and turn to the beer, Sam declaring Dean's foresight in getting a keg to be sheer prophecy. "He has the sight!" the drunken hunter crows, and Dean just laughs and toasts him with the enormous ancient shell casing he's using as a stein. 

“Y'know,” he slurs, much later, when Sam's eyelids have dropped to quarter mast, and they're both sprawled practically boneless in the seats of their forebears, “It's funny t'think about. Thinkin'.”

Sam stirs with great effort. “Wha?” 

“Wha' -- what people'd think, the ones'at died before, if they could see this world right now,” Dean replies, staring off into the gathering shadows against the distant wall. The desk lamp casts a golden glow over them and the table and the abandoned research, but beyond a few feet is a slanting, shaded morass. His mind wanders for a moment, and he imagines what it might be like to live, half in shadow, never quite knowing the light. Oh, wait. He issues a drunken laugh at that, and Sam sloppily raises an eyebrow at him. “Whatchu laughin' at?”

“Shadows,” is the best answer he can give. Sam looks at him like he's mental, which of course they both are, and Dean just laughs some more.

He's draining the last of the beer from his stein when Sam says darkly, “They'd probably hate me, too.”

“Sammy, no...” Dean says weakly, but Sam's already stuck in it, eyebrows drawn in that way that makes his forehead buckle up, and Dean's never felt the urge to smooth those wrinkles out stronger than he's feeling it right now. “They'd see that the Apocalypse was averted, sure, but they'd fixate on my mistake, my _big, fucking mistake_ \--” Dean still winces whenever Sam curses himself like that -- “and just like Tracey did, they'd blame me fr'all the little things. Big things to them, big things, I don't --” his face crumples -- “I don't mean that people dying's a little thing, just... little in the grand scheme... and it's all -- all of it's my fault.”

“Sam,” Dean whispers, and he feels like that's the loudest he can say it, like even if he screamed his brother's name right then it'd still come out much too softly. “Sammy, that's not true.”

“It is. It is and you know it. I -- face it, Dean.” Sam's drawn in on himself, smaller and smaller, plaid-covered shoulders hunched like he could disappear and rid the world of this nasty thing he thinks he is. “I don't deserve to be as happy as I was the other day.”

Dean's stein hits the table with a hollow gong and Sam shoots him a startled look. Dean has no idea what expression is on his face but it must look terrifying, because Sam's unfolding, reaching out a hand made unsteady with drink and opening his mouth, forming syllables --

“Those people would be wrong, Sam.” Dean's voice is firm, despite how wobbly he feels, and he looks his brother sternly in the eye. “You've done much more good than y'have bad. And even so -- even if they did decide t'hate you for that shit, they'd havta hate me, too. I've done stupid shit, crazy shit, made bad decisions -- 's part of bein' human, man! We make fuckin' mistakes.”

“'m not human,” Sam mumbles. “Got demon blood, 'member?”

Dean looks at him sideways. “Thought you said the Trials were... what, purifying you, or something?”

“We di'nt complete the Trials, Dean.” Sam's face is so morose it belongs on that Sarah McLachlan commercial. “I'm still tainted. Dirty.”

“Doesn't fuckin' make you any less of my brother, though, so shut the fuck up about it.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. Sam's face forms one of its less-attractive moues at that, and Dean closes his eyes, clumsily massages the bridge of his nose. 

They sit in contemplative silence for, well, Dean doesn't know how long. With no windows, the light in the bunker is a static thing, perpetual twilight with a tungsten hue. At some point he starts talking again, mumbling really, face propped in his hand as he doodles with a finger on the streaked tabletop. Telling Sam all the reasons why he matters, every one he can think of, and the tangents become epic strings of prose, Dean spinning all the words he knows into telling his brother just how much he's loved.

Without saying those three particular words, of course. Those, Sam already knows.

There's no answer, but he sees Sam nod, so he keeps talking. Makes sure he knows. Makes doubly sure, then goes off in another direction, telling Sam stories he might not remember, all those times when they were kids when life didn't suck so badly. Like the time Sammy wanted spaghetti-Os, but Dad spent the money on Ramen and beer, so later Dean filched the receipt from the trash, went into the store, picked up another box of Ramen and returned it for two cans of red glop. Or the time Dean had a cold, and Sam wouldn't stop cuddling up to him like a space heater. Or when Dad actually stopped at one of those tourist dives so the boys could get a Polaroid made with an enormous T-Rex statue. Dean thinks he has the Polaroid in the Impala somewhere. Probably in the trunk.

“What do you think he'd say to this place, eh, Sammy? This crazy hole our ancestors built.” Dean waves a hand around them. “I wonder what he'd say if we told him his dad didn't run out on him after all...”

“I suppose he'd be impressed with it,” Sam says quietly. It's the first he's said in forever, and Dean squints across the table at him. Either his night vision is getting worse, or his eyes are numb.

“It is pretty impressive,” he rejoins. “Pretty sure, though, that if he wasn't there to see Henry stumble outta that closet, he'd never believe it actually happened. Probably punch me for talkin' shit about his old man.”

Sam makes a quiet noise, neither denial nor acquiescence, and Dean laughs bitterly. “You guys had plenty of disagreements, man, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I...” He sounds lost for words, pondering in the semi-darkness. Dean lets him, instead studies what he can see of his brother, the serious lines of him, the way his hair falls now, framing his face. Hands toying with the pencil he'd discarded earlier -- a thought rises and Dean twitches, thinking of those hands in other places. His lips slide into his customary smirk, and he draws breath to say something lewd.

But Sam speaks. “I have observed many fathers speaking to their children in many different ways, but I am unable to imagine how my Father might interact with me, or any of my brothers and sisters. Only four of us have seen Him, and now I hear He is gone.”

Dean's heart stopped two words into that little speech, the stiffness of Sam's tone slamming him back to reality, a meteor impacting the ground. Sam must have fallen asleep, and Ezekiel had come forward... but goddamnit. He forgot, he forgot _again_ , this terrible thing he's done to save the life of the only person he's ever loved so fucking completely. How could he fucking _forget?_ It dries out his throat and turns his stomach, all that alcohol considering a hasty exit.

What he should say is, 'I'm sorry, Zeke.' He should pay attention to this injured, fallen angel who is inexplicably saving his baby brother. He should stay awake and give Ezekiel the attention he deserves, a shoulder to lean on, and ear to listen, a --

An enormous yawn splits his face.

Suddenly on the verge of sliding out of his chair, Dean clumsily stands up, one hand on the table holding him up. “Goodnight, Zeke,” he says, mostly steadily, and before the angel can say anything, he's on his way up the stairs.

He's passed out before his head hits the pillow, still fully clothed, and when he wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache, he remembers everything.

Shame tastes like last night's whiskey, returning with a vengeance.

\- - - - -

Despite the nature of their relationship, the brothers maintain separate rooms. Sam has said that it's because Dean hogs the covers, but really, they both like having optional privacy. Lately, though, Sam's been focusing on researching angels for something, anything, useful, and Dean, who can only take so much research when there's TV and cool shit to discover behind a crap-ton of doors, has been exploring -- and feeling lonelier and lonelier. It doesn't help that whenever he looks at Sam, his guilt trips into overdrive and he has to find a drink.

Huh. There might be something to Sam's alcoholic theory, after all. Not like realizing it'll make it stop.

Late one night, when the bunker is still and silent, Dean is flat on his back in his awesome bed, buzzed and alone and unable to sleep. He keeps playing his and Sam's last encounter on repeat, stroking himself absently, but his cock does not want another date with his right hand. Not even his left, even though usually he can pretend his left is Sam... or Cas.

Thinking about his earthbound angel kills his erection completely, but before Dean can get sucked into the cycle of _I let him down_ and _it wasn't enough_ and _I wonder where the fuck he is and what he's doing now_ , he swings his legs out of the bed and sits up. Head rush. Shit on a shingle.

Once there's not blood pounding behind his eyes, Dean pads down the hall to Sam's room. The door doesn't make a sound opening, and though there is very little light, Dean has no trouble locating the blanket-swathed lump that is his brother. He eases into the bed -- these were all so well made, he marvels, when the mattress barely shifts underneath him -- and slots in behind his overgrown Sammy, hands traveling slowly over his brother's chest, nuzzling his face into Sam's hair, kissing up his neck. "I forget sometimes how much I need you," he says sub-vocally, when Sam's unconscious the only time he can say what he really wants to say to Sam's face. "All of this, that's been happening, all the times I could have lost you... God, baby boy, I love you so m--"

"Dean." The full volume of Sam's voice is a sonic blast in the stillness, and Dean's heart trips, thuds back into action. "What in the name of my Father are you doing to your brother?"

Not Sam, then. "Fucking hell, Zeke," Dean spits, pulling violently away. "This isn't working."

Ezekiel shift's Sam's body over to stare at Dean with soulful, borrowed eyes. "What is this?" he asks again, less disgust and more confusion. "You and Sam are incestuous?"

Dean flinches. "You can't really label what we are," he mumbles, that ugly word circling the forefront of his mind. _That's what it is, isn't it, you sick fuck?_ he berates himself poisonously. _You've corrupted and soiled your little brother, you absolute piece of filth. There's a circle of the pit reserved for --_

"Dean." The way Ezekiel inflects with Sam's voice turns Dean's stomach. He sits up, coils to stand.

One of Sam's huge hands wraps around his bicep. "Dee?" he says softly, and that's so unfair Dean could cry. "You don't get to call me that," he says roughly, trying to wrench away. Fuck, angels are strong. "Nobody but Sammy gets to call me that."

"I can see it all," Ezekiel says, not really in response, his voice faintly wondrous. "You and Sam are in love. You have been for... years, and years. This is...”

“Yeah, yeah, it's sick, I get it. Now would you let me up? I gotta -- ” Dean runs out of words, sitting there on the edge of the bed, because he doesn't know what it is he has to do. He just knows he has to get out of there -- but he can't bring himself to leave. Not yet. Sam --

Sam's eyes flare luminescent blue and Dean's breath catches in his throat. “Dean,” Ezekiel says, very softly. “Need I remind you? I feel what Sam feels.”

The silence after that is palpable, and Dean has no idea what to say. _I don't know you_ , is the first thing that screams into his mind, which is stuck on vertical hold like an old VCR. _Blip -- blip -- blip but he knows you_ , his mind slings back. _He knows everything Sammy knows. Everything._

“That time when he was fourteen --” Dean begins, then bites his lip on the rest of that, folding in on himself.

“You two should talk about that,” Ezekiel says, and Dean can hear amusement coloring his tone. He starts to get offended -- “I believe you have different opinions.”

Oh. _Oh._

“What else are you finding?” Dean asks, genuinely curious, shifting on the bed so that he's more facing the angel that's riding his brother and not just talking to the wall. Ezekiel gingerly removes Sam's hand from his arm, clasps both of them in his lap. He looks very earnest, and with a pang Dean thinks again of Castiel. _Cas, wherever you are right now... I fucking miss you, man._

He hopes Castiel can hear him, because he knows he feels the same.

“There is much here that is based upon fundamental misunderstandings,” Ezekiel says, low and steadily. “Many instances when different words or even speaking words at all could have prevented pain between you.”

Dean shrugs but it feels stiff. “Dunno what to tell you, man,” he says. “We've never been very good at the whole communi--”

“It seems to me that you are the one who refuses to talk,” Ezekiel shoots back evenly. “What is it, 'no chick-flick moments'? You are constantly shutting down Sam's attempts at communication, yet you speak at length whenever you so choose, usually to inflict some negativity.”

It's not difficult to let his anger rise and take over his tongue. “Yeah? Well, you don't get to judge me, pal. Let's not forget whose existence hinges on me keepin' a certain secret.” _A secret that ties me in fucking Gordion knots_ , he adds disgustedly. 

Ezekiel isn't even fazed. “You will keep my secret, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” There's a hint of that blue glow in Sam's irises again, and it's mesmerizing. Dean can't bring himself to be upset at just how drawn he is to it, but it's difficult to carry on a conversation when every signal in his body is telling him to pounce, fuck, own that beautiful body in front of him.

The angel is still talking. “--ause you want Sam to regain his full health, and I am the only path he can take to reach it.”

“He didn't choose that path,” Dean says before he can stop the words from flying free. 

Ezekiel just looks at him, like he knows, and Dean knows that he does. _You made the choice for him, dumbass._

Well, Dean can make all kinds of choices. Making the decision to _move_ instantaneously helps him escape Ezekiel's grasp, and he sways toward the door. One step, two, a few more --

“Dean.” Sam's voice with Ezekiel behind it is so small in the dark of his room. “Dean, don't leave.”

“You're not my brother, Zeke,” Dean says, not unkindly. “I'm sorry, but it's just not right.”

(He does understand how ironic that is to say, thank you very much. But it's true.)

“I feel what he feels,” Ezekiel says, still so quietly. He's almost timid. “I don't know what to do with these feelings, Dean.”

Another bright flash of pain in Dean's chest. _Oh, Cas..._

“It's simple,” Dean says, his tongue leaden in his mouth. It keeps speaking for him, despite warning bells in his head and an odd clenching in his gut that's neither arousal nor guilt. “You've got all of Sam's memories rattling around in there. It's just a simple case of What Would Sam Winchester Do?” _I'd stab him in the brain_ , his memory quotes in Sam's voice. Dean winces.

There's a rustle of wings and then Sam's body is a furnace, slotted up behind him, Sam's arms around his waist, his chest, Sam's lips suckling behind his ear. “This is what Sam would do,” Ezekiel says, Sam's voice like a warm dark entity over Dean's shoulder. Teeth find Dean's earlobe and he shudders, feeling his cock twitch up and fill, and an answering hardness against his ass. “Zeke,” he whispers, wants to say _no, get off me, you're not Sam and you never will be_ \-- but it's Sam, it _is_ , Ezekiel reading their past encounters like a screenplay and acting the part flawlessly.

“Dean,” Sam breathes in his brother's ear, and Dean whirls, finds his lips, and is lost.

Ezekiel kisses like Sam might kiss if Sam were more patient, less like a hyper puppy when he and Dean make out. It's slow, deep, measured but Dean is drowning in it, slick slide of tongues, stolen breaths and heavy, panting moans. His hands find Sam's hair, Sam's hands find his ass and yank their hips together in a dirty grind. It gets better when Zeke backs them up against the wall, their chests colliding, driving Sam's impressive erection into Dean's, the friction dragging noises from them both.

“Oh my fucking -- _Dean_ ,” he moans in Sam's voice, and Dean's no longer thinking with his upstairs brain. He doesn't much care that this is Ezekiel and not Sam -- it's not like he's raping his brother, for fuck's sake, they've done this before. So many times. And when Ezekiel's power flares and Sam's eyes glow electric blue, Dean's balls clench up and he has to clutch at himself, get a hand between his suddenly-on-the-edge genitals and his brother's rolling hips. He's too turned on to be embarrassed by the whine that's driven from him. “Sam...”

“Yes,” Ezekiel breathes, and that's good enough.

Their tongues tangle and Dean drags his fingers almost frantically through Sam's hair, holding him close, Ezekiel pushing Sam's hands further up Dean's sleep shirt, sliding possessively over the skin of his stomach, pulling a shudder out of him. Dean groans into their kiss when Ezekiel withdraws one of those hands only to cup the back of his head in that palm, tugging him forward. The rest of Dean's body moves with his head, pressing against his brother, chin angling so they slot together just right. 

The cool stone of the bunker wall is a solid weight against his back, Sam's body solidified holy fire searing him from the front. His palm catches on Sam's stubble and Ezekiel does something with Sam's tongue that sends colored sparks down Dean's legs. He wobbles, slides down the wall, but Ezekiel's got him, and together they stumble and stagger, kiss and caress, toward the antique bed.

Dean hits the mattress with a dazed look on his face and his cock standing straight up. The little wet spot growing on the front of his thin sleep pants is a little cold, but then Sam's big hand wraps around him through the fabric and he can only hiss with pleasure, lying back, throat extended, staring at nothing behind him.

Ezekiel's jerks are strong and controlled, but something in the way he ripples his fingers on the upstroke, the twist at the head -- he pulls the waistband down under Dean's balls, which are pulled up tight and neat beneath his straining cock, ready to blow from a few fucking kisses and whatever fucking magic this angel is working on his dick. For some reason, the first brush of Sammy's hand is ten times as electric, and it isn't until Ezekiel is leaning in, eyes mostly pupil and the most foreign smirk Dean's ever seen on Sam's lips, that he gets it. What he's feeling.

The sharp little zing of _forbidden_.

This is a wrong thing, what he's doing. He's betrayed Sam's trust and he's about to betray his love, if Dean forces himself to look at it objectively, and this is quite possibly the worst thing he will ever have done. He holds the alien gaze framed by his brother's face, until Ezekiel actually blinks and looks away, back down to where his hand is working over Dean, skimming warmth. 

Does he -- does the angel feel as guilty as Dean does? Is that possible? He's exhibited more signs of humanity than any angel Dean's met so far, and the way things are going now, well, it kind of seems like he's more fallen than advertised.

Then Dean feels it, the wash of _oh, fuck it. I don't fucking care anymore, let what may happen, happen_. He's drawn on that for years, in different situations, mostly whenever something went wrong with Sammy. He falls back on the bed, staring up at a ceiling he can't see, and with a little grimace he turns the guilt trip off.

His brother's hands make short work of removing his pants, and Dean picks at the hem of his shirt, wishing he hadn't even bothered to put it on when he went to bed. Sam usually sleeps with pants on, since Kevin lives here now too, but Dean's never felt right sleeping without a shirt on as well. You never know when you've got to get up and move, fast, and you don't want to be stuck out in the middle of the night in some random-ass city with no fucking shirt. 

Long fingers cover his. “Do you want the shirt off, Dean?” Ezekiel says in Sam's lowest register. Dean's cock twitches violently and blurts precome, tickling as it dribbles down the shaft. “Y-yes,” he manages, so turned on it's painful. 

Ezekiel takes two great handfuls of shirt and yanks, tearing the fabric from Dean's body and tossing it casually away in a display that leaves Dean breathless. 

The elder Winchester, now starkly nude, spread out and utterly exposed, wants desperately to get his hands on the body rising up before him. Ezekiel leans over him, a hungry gleam in Sam's hooded, hazel eyes. Dean grapples with arms, back, fingertips skating the wings of Sam's shoulder blades, which bow up and jut beneath his touch as Ezekiel leans in to flick Sam's pink tongue over one of Dean's nipples.

The pitch of the noise that escapes him would embarrass him, were he capable of anything besides clutching at Sam and moaning. "Z... _Saaam_ ," he whines. Even caught up like he is, he can't say that name. He can't smell his brother, feel him like this, see his beautiful face and say a different name -- even with circumstances being what they are.

Ezekiel falters over Dean's skin for the barest of moments at the sound of Sam's name, but continues downwards, licking a spiraling, teasing trail down, goosebumps tingling up in his wake. By the time he's nosing at the hairs of Dean's groin, Dean is shivering, clutching at the sheets. The first puff of breath on his cock is a shot in the dark. _“Fuck--!”_ punches out of Dean's throat, his whole body tensing. Ezekiel silently licks up the shaft, mouths at the head, and then swallows him down with an ease and grace that even Sam with all his practice still hadn't achieved. _Probably had to be an angel to do it, anyhow, 's too deep_. Dean thought hazily, his mouth falling open. _Zeke..._ he thinks, he can't speak, _where in all that's holy did you learn to do this?_

Ezekiel pulls off with that familiar pop of Sam's lips that strikes Dean with equal measures of thrill and melancholy. Several strands of hair, grayed by the dark, have fallen in front of his brother's eyes, but Dean can feel the look in them across the space between them. “Dean,” the angel says, breathy and even lower. Dean realizes he's holding his breath, but can't quite remember how to exhale.

“There is -- something I have seen --” _oh god, oh fuck --_ “that Sam -- that I would like to do to you.”

 _Really?_ Dean squeaks soundlessly. _He fucking stammered that,_ he realizes. _Angels don't stammer, not, not unless -- and did his eyes just --_

Dean lets out what little air he's still holding and sucks in a new lungful. “Okay?”

“Yes?” There, Dean definitely saw it that time, a flare of dancing blue around Sam's swollen pupils, turning his eyes into circular lanterns of blue flame. Each time it happens, the circle grows wider, the flames more compressed, an angel expressing arousal -- most likely without even meaning to.

“Yes,” the elder Winchester says firmly, and somehow manages to contain his squeak when Ezekiel throws his legs over broad shoulders and dives down, nosing beneath his balls. The first touch of Sam's tongue to his entrance is sweet, shock and agony. Dean keens, rolls his hips down onto the angel's face. “God...” he moans before he can help it, his noises on autopilot, and he feels rather than hears Ezekiel's startled noise before a very vicious hard-tongue jab strikes deep inside him.

“Damn, man, sorry.” he laughs, can barely form the words for gasping as Zeke goes to town on his ass, eating him out with the kind of enthusiasm Dean usually reserves for pie -- and tasty women. And, well, Sam's ass. Undulating soft and hard muscle, fucking into him, smoothing over the outside rim, hitting every nerve in a succession like a symphony played on Dean's most sensitive skin. Dean's canting his hips down hard, now, keening on various syllables, throwing in more shocking blasphemy and good old fashioned profanity when he can't find the words to tell Ezekiel how good he is, how perfect that tongue is inside him. _Jesus Christ_ , he wonders wildly, _what the fuck? I'm --_ He's saying so many things, incriminating things; terrible, wanton, slutty things that he's never said to Sam.

“Tell me again what you want me to do to you,” Ezekiel growls, sinking Sam's teeth into the soft meat of Dean's thigh, and Dean babbles _fuck me, please, fucking hell Sam --_

He's forgotten again; even if he hasn't, not really.

Going through with this, that wasn't so much a no-brainer, but this? Yeah, if they're doing this, there can be no evidence. Dean can hide walking funny, blame it on an overnight cramp, but if Sam were to wake up with a sore ass and no memory of fun times? Dean might not think sometimes, and he's made some piss-poor decisions, but he is not that stupid.

Plus, it's been awhile since Sam has felt well enough to top --

In reaction to that, a scene pops into his head from that show Sam likes to watch. _“More guilt!”_ the British man says, dying on the floor. _“There must be someone left in the universe I haven't screwed up yet.”_

Dean doesn't know about that guy, but for him? The answer's no.

A questing finger slides in to him next to that tongue, copious amounts of saliva doing at least a little bit to smooth the way. Dean's definitely more relaxed than he might have guessed -- that tongue thing was more than a little distracting -- and he opens up around the finger, letting out a little _mmph_ at the sensation of being filled. The finger stretches, ever so gently, pulling at his inner walls.

After a bit, though, it starts to dry out, and the pulling burns worse and worse as Ezekiel keeps moving. Dean bears it at first with silent grimaces, then quiet grunts, then finally he has to grab Sam's wrist and hiss, “Dude, lube.”

The shaggy head comes up rapidly, revealing a confused expression. “What?”

“Lube, you gotta use lube. I'm not a girl, I don't make my own,” Dean snaps. 

His eyes have adjusted well enough by this point that he can see Ezekiel's deep flush clear as day. “I -- I'm sorry,” he says solemnly. “I was taken by the pull of your skin, I -- I wasn't paying attention.”

That's so much like something Cas would say, that he imagines Cas might do, that Dean's heart breaks just a little and he smiles, trying to make it sweet and understanding, and not give himself away. His face might not even do sweet and understanding, but Ezekiel seems to recognize what he's trying to convey. The angel slides his roughly catching finger out as slowly as possible, biting his lip in a very _Sam_ gesture whenever Dean hisses in pain. 

"Where do I find lube?" he then demands, once more imperious. Dean rolls on to his stomach toward Sam's nightstand, where he knows there's at least half a bottle of some very awesome KY. “You don't need much of this stuff,” he warns, when he resurfaces with an opaque bottle. “It's thick and sticky and the slide is just --” a full-body shudder cuts him off mid-sentence when he remembers pressing in to Sam's tight channel, coated in this stuff -- “Aaanyway,” he recovers, “just put it on your finger and make sure it stays coated. Same goes for your --” _Sam's_ \-- “You get the idea.”

Ezekiel nods Sam's head so seriously, accepting the lube bottle like a mission that's life or death. This time when his finger probes at the sensitive entrance, it's a much slicker slide, and Dean gasps his appreciation. There are so many minute differences in the way Ezekiel does this, too many to catalog, they can only be marveled at and experienced. This time, the angel isn't focused on Dean's body -- he's focused on Dean, eyes staring star-cut holes into Dean's as he moves. They're locked in singularity together. He adds another finger, but Dean barely feels it, caught as he is in the black widow's web of his brother's occupied eyes.

At three Dean is writhing, sliding against the comforter, bucking his hips down to meet the measured jabs. A fine sheen of sweat is standing out on Sam's brow, kid always did run hot, but with the promise of a fourth finger skirting his rim, Dean feels hot enough to burn. Certainly enough to feel droplets rolling down his temples, between his pecs, soaking the fabric beneath him. 

“Just get in me,” he tries to say, and Ezekiel smirks, twists his fingers and pulls out in a cruel, quick evacuation that sucks the breath from Dean's lungs. His cheeks are cold, there's wet, he's cried at some point? But oh, _oh_ , the head of Sam's enormous cock probes gently at the shocked skin, and Dean clenches with a whimper. “Let me in, Dee,” Ezekiel says, unfairly, Dean throws his head back with a moan and opens his legs as wide as they'll go. _Sam..._

The fat slide of him is a blessing and a curse, and Dean swears a long streak in the strong groan that rolls from deep in his chest. Ezekiel bottoms out completely in the first full stroke, nothing tentative about him and Dean loves it. He wraps his legs around Sam's trim waist, urges him in deeper. “Yes, yes,” he's chanting under his breath, as those gorgeous hips cant back, pull out --

Oh, _fuck_ , there's power behind that. Dean screams, he's impaled so thoroughly. Ezekiel sets a punishing pace, thrusting in time with their pounding heartbeats, harsh breaths echoing sharp off the walls. Again, again, he's going to fuck Dean in half, but _my god_ , Dean can't do anything but work his hips dirty and hard against Sam's and mewl, keen, shriek as he's jostled up, down along rucked-up sheets, soaked through with mingled sweat. He keeps hissing the first syllable of his brother's name, and eventually he does get to the A, but it's a long, flat, bounced up note, his hands grasping spasmodically at his brother's toned arms, tangling in his sweaty hair. 

Then Zeke is wrapping those long, strong arms around Dean, securing himself deep inside, and he's lifting -- Dean, dazed, can only watch like an outsider as he's manhandled, positioned in Sam's lap with that glorious cock buried, pressing against all the best spots. Dean's legs fit snugly around and lock at Sam's back, his arms around his neck, holding Sam's head as he plasters his mouth to his brother's and kisses him, the angel, both of them as thoroughly as he can. He's overcome, grinding down on the thick rod filling him, slow and nasty, his head tipped back so Ezekiel can nip with Sam's teeth and suckle with Sam's lips and tongue, The room takes on a blue tint and Dean moans, such a wanton sound. He can imagine what they look like, a work of art, someone's masterpiece in skin tones, the hanging frost of panted breath, and the way a sound must look to someone who can see it hanging in midair. Two sapphire glowing eyes, lighting the way.

One of Sam's hands plants on his back and Zeke moves again, slinging him forward, holding him hovering over the bed to plow into him, and Dean has to close his eyes. Every thrust slams a sound from his lungs and he's lost in it, the rhythms and how they all interlock, the creak of the bed and the slap of their hips, the angel's brutally siphoned breaths --

Dean opens his eyes. Sam's are fully dilated, no color, just a big sexed-out circle regarding him hungrily over a smirk. A smirk which is rapidly falling, lips parting dazedly, reverence lighting Sam's features along with anticipation. His hips start to stutter in their rhythm. “Dean,” he growls, fucking in harder, letting Dean's back hit the bed and then ramming him into the mattress, the entire bed frame rocking up on two legs once or twice -- and as Dean's eyes slide closed again, he sees the light start to flicker. 

Downstairs, the generator whines.

"Let it go," Dean whispers. Sam's eyes flare blue, and the world explodes into light, and sparks. Together, they fly.

\- - - - -

Dean comes to with a deep breath, burrowing his head into the hands holding it before he realizes he's on the floor, draped over Sam's lap. "Bwuh?" he manages articulately.

“Welcome back,” Sam's voice sounds, amused, and Dean snorts as he struggles into some kind of sitting position. “Shut up, Zeke.”

He glances blearily around the room. Ezekiel's turned the light on, and he can see the mess they made of the bed. Everything else looks -- _wait. What the -- is that --_

Dean crawls out of Sam's lap and over to a spot on the floor, forgetting for a moment he's completely nude until Zeke smacks his ass in passing. He yelps; he's not proud of that. But he's too focused on inspecting these spots on the floor which, upon closer inspection, lead a straight line from the edge of the bed to where Sam's body sits in a languid cross-legged pose.

Swiping at it with his fingertips, Dean tests the viscosity. Yep, it's semen. Which means --

“Dude, did you _throw me across the room_ while I was coming?”

The look on his face feels incredulous but must be pretty funny, because the bastard is actually laughing, hiding his sniggers behind one hand. Like he doesn't look ridiculous, bare-assed on the floor, all long, and... Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, Clark Kent, so I'm not your Wonder Woman. Did yours punch any holes in the wall?”

The alarmed confusion in Sam's eyes at that is worth the entire thing.

Once they've cleaned off, and partially dressed -- Dean's certain Sam will remember putting those pants on last night -- Ezekiel clasps him on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, and Dean finds something fascinating on the floor. “'s not like I did you a favor,” he says gruffly. Ezekiel waits calmly until Dean meets his eyes again, and then he smiles. “You did, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay,” Dean says preemptively. “Let's not get sappy, here. It was fun. Now it's over. You gotta wipe Sam back to the time he fell asleep, and when he finds out about you, do not ever fucking mention it.”

Ezekiel regards him steadily. “Don't you mean, if he finds out?”

“No,” Dean says, guilt and guilty anticipation souring in his gut. “There's no if for this. It'll happen. Always does.”

“I will not mention it.” There's a hint of amusement in his tone, but not in his eyes. Dean presses his lips into a hard line. “I meant what I said, Zeke,” he says. “I hope you're one of the good guys.”

“I am,” he says earnestly, with Sam's wide eyes. Dean loves his brother a little more then, and wants more than anything to have him back.

It hits him then, what he's just done, and he recalls for a moment the razor, and one particular soul who screamed so beautifully.

\- - - - -

Sam shoves his sheets into the old-fashioned washing machine with a grimace. Dean's in the middle of eating a slice of days-old pizza and can't comment on how it makes him look like a geriatric Lorax. “I dunno,” his brother continues, sounding genuinely confused. “I guess I just hadn't noticed how badly my room reeked of sex.”

Dean snorts, but the pepperoni thankfully does not enter his nasal cavity, so there's a stroke of good fortune. Sam makes his _Dean, you're an ass_ bitchface. “Next time, we'll fuck all over _your_ room.”

"Deal," Dean says, punching the pain down as low as it'll go and offering a mostly pizza-free grin. "How about now?"

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean's mouth over his and Dean's fingers digging into the spurs of his hips must kill his desire to protest. He does murmur, “Dude, you taste like cheap Italian,” but Dean just kisses him deeper, pressing in closer and flicking his tongue against Sam's lips. The difference in this kiss is both delicious and heartbreaking, the way Sam licks into his mouth, young and eager, Dean's brother and the love of his life. He breaks the kiss to stare up at Sam, those hazel eyes finally looking _right_.

No one but Dean knows it's guilt making his heart pound out of his chest. "I'mma take good care of you, baby boy," he growls into Sam's neck, and it's a promise.

*FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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